Pretending to Farm

Give Me a Slug of Booze!

Technomic has come out with its restaurant trend predictions for 2011. Now, I've never heard of Technomics before but, by their name, I assume they have something to do with technology and economics. I'm clever that way. Why they're talking about adult beverages, I haven't a clue. But I like adult beverages so I'll bite. 

"Adult beverages, from retro cocktails and high-end spirits to craft beers will get more play in appropriate markets." (Photo: Thinkstock)

So the Mad Men craze is still going strong. And influencing what we drink. With the exception of craft beer, as every man in 1964 drank Pabst Blue Ribbon. Women did not drink beer at all and instead had to chug cough syrup and vanilla except for Betty Draper and her ilk, thin as rail women who could work some undergarments and pearls to their best advantage.

I like adult beverages (yes, I am repeating myself). Sometimes I enjoy going to BevMo and fantasizing about all the high-end liquor and craft beer I would buy if money was no object. You see, the appreciation for alcohol was ingrained into me from youth. My Great Uncle Charles, Helen's brother, a crusty Baltimore born-and-bred codger who loved to drive his huge white Caddy with red leather interior and laughed in a way to betray that he smoked way too many cigarettes, taught me at two or three years old to ask for adult beverages. 

"Lauren, what would you like to drink?"

"Give me a slug o' booze!"

He thought it was really funny.

 

At four or five, I could serve the Jolly Girls their cocktails made to order. I could also concoct an old-fashioned, muddling fruit with the best of bartenders. My parents often took me to their favorite piano bar, The Eager House, where special attention was paid to me, where I sat in a special bar stool, drank umpteen million Shirley Temples, and had songs sung just to me by the piano player. I was princess of the Eager House. 

As I light tonight's drinking lamp in preparation for Friday cocktail hour, why don't I share a few concoctions to ready you for 2011. 

1. The Classic Martini 

"I'm not talking a cup of cheap gin splashed over an ice cube. I'm talking satin, fire and ice; Fred Astaire in a glass; surgical cleanliness; insight and comfort; redemption and absolution. I'm talking a martini" --Anonymous

2 1/2 ounces top shelf gin                             

1 1/2 teaspoons dry vermouth

                                                                           1 lemon twist or cocktail olive

In a shaker half-filled with ice cubes, combine the gin and vermouth. Shake well. Strain into a cocktail glass. Garnish with the olive. I like a little olive juice splashed into the shaker and prefer my martini with a blue cheese olive. And, sacrilege, schmacrilege, I prefer substituting the gin with premium vodka as gin makes me mean and I am not a mean person. Belvedere works nicely. Absolut if you're slumming it.

2. The Manhattan

Although many legends exist as to the origin of the Manhattan, many involving Lady Randolph Churchill (Winston's mum), one 

 urban legend suggests that the drink was named "Manhattan" after the city's sewage and water system, which ran brown at the time. Ew!

1 3/4 ounces Crown Royal Reserve (or other premium whiskey)

1/2 ounce Sweet Vermouth

1-3 dashes of Bitters

Combine all ingredients in an ice-filled cocktail shaker, strain into a chilled glass, garnish with a Maraschino cherry, and serve straight up. A Dry Manhattan substitutes Dry Vermouth for Sweet and is garnished with a twist. A Rob Roy uses Scotch Whiskey rather than Canadian or Bourbon.

3. The Old Fashioned

 

The Old Fashioned  first made its appearance in the 1880s at the Pendennis Club, a gentlemen's club in Louisville, Kentucky. Invented by a bartender at the club, it was popularized by Colonel James E Pepper who brought it to the Waldorf-Astoria in New York City.

 
3 dashes bitters 
2 orange slices
1 sugar cube
3 ounces blended whiskey
1 maraschino cherry

 In an old-fashioned glass, muddle the bitters and orange into the sugar cube, using the back of a teaspoon. Almost fill the glass with ice cubes and add the whiskey. Garnish with another orange slice and cherry, Serve with a swizzle stick. Substitute brandy for the appropriately named Brandy Old Fashioned. The Old fashioned is a favorite of the hunky but flawed Don Draper on "Mad Men".

4. The Daiquiri

The term daiquiri comes from a beach near Santiago, Chile. An urban legend suggests it was invented by a group of American mining engineers who ran out of gin. It is nothing like the sicky sweet frozen frippery ubiquitous on chain restaurant menus everywhere.

• 8 parts white Cuban rum
• 2 parts lime juice
• 1 part simple syrup

Shake with lots of finely crushed ice and strain well into a chilled cocktail glass.

5. The Sidecar

 The Ritz Hotel in Paris claims to be the origin of the Sidecar invented around World War I by Sam "Suck It" Treadway.

• 8 parts Cognac or Armagnac
• 2 parts lemon juice
• 1 part Cointreau or Triple Sec

Pour all ingredients in a cocktail shaker over ice. Shake well and strain into a cocktail glass. Garnish with a twist.

So there, make yourself a cocktail, sit by the fire, and discuss the future of plastics together. Cheers!

 

Hey Sweet Potato, I could eat you with a spoon!

When I was a little girl, Helen, or Gramma as I called her, would hug me tight and declare that I was so sweet, she could eat me with a spoon. Which, looking back, was very loving and wonderful in that way that only grandmothers can convey; but, at the time, it frightened me. I had all sorts of mental images of my grandmother, who was a tall, big-boned German woman, wielding a giant grapefruit spoon and plunging it into my short, small-boned American body like a deranged zombie.

I assumed it had to be a grapefruit spoon as it needed sharp edges and a point to really dig into my my flesh. Unfounded fear is all in the details. 

But we're here to talk about pie, aren't we? Thanksgiving is in exactly a week. And I am scheduled to work that day. Which does not please me. So let's pout and make sweet potato pie. With bourbon, some in the pie and a slitch on ice for the baker.

Sweet Potato Pie is similar to pumpkin pie in the fact that is indeed orange and uses similar spices and flavorings in its recipe. But a sweet potato is a tuber while a pumpkin is a squash. As an aside, sweet potatoes are not yams but were mislabeled as such by growers who thought we were too stupid to know a sweet potato was not the same as regular potatoes. Because there is nothing worse than baking what you think are russets and discovering that your chives and bacon bits are useless. Yams are a completely different genus and species, are native to Africa, popular in Latin American dishes, and very sweet. They can also grow over seven feet long which would be damned difficult to manage in my kitchen.

To my taste buds, sweet potatoes are richer and slightly more sugary than pumpkins. But canned pumpkin puree is ubiquitous this time of year and one actually has to bake and mash sweet potatoes. How inconvenient. We're making pie with them regardless.

Or irregardless as Helen would say. She loved collecting malapropisms and using them for her own amusement so that someone, meeting her for the first time, would not realize that she knew the correct word or phrase.


Let's bake!


This recipe is courtesy of Paula Deen and FoodNetwork.


 

Old Fashioned Sweet Potato Pie

Prep Time: 20 min

Cook Time: 1 hr 55 min

Level: Easy

Serves: 6 to 8 servings

 INGREDIENTS

• 2 cups peeled, cooked sweet potatoes
• 1 1/4 cups sugar
• 1/2 stick melted butter
• 2 eggs
• 1 teaspoon vanilla extract or 1 to 2 tablespoons bourbon
• 1/4 teaspoon salt
• 1/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon
• 1/4 teaspoon ground ginger
• 1 cup milk
• 9-inch unbaked pie crust
• 3 egg whites

DIRECTIONS

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees F.

For the filling, using an electric hand mixer, combine the potatoes, 1 cup of the sugar, the butter, eggs, vanilla, salt, and spices. Mix thoroughly. Add the milk and continue to mix. Pour the filling into the pie crust and bake for 35 to 45 minutes, or until a knife inserted in the center comes out clean. Place the pie on a rack and cool to room temperature before covering with meringue.

For the meringue, using an electric mixer, beat the egg whites until soft peaks form; beat in the remaining 1/4 cup sugar 1 tablespoon at a time. Continue beating until the sugar dissolves and the mixture is glossy and stiff, but not dry. With a rubber spatula, spoon the meringue onto the pie, forming peaks. Make sure the meringue touches the crust all around. Sprinkle with a pinch of granulated sugar. Bake for 10 to 12 minutes, or until delicately browned. Cool and serve.

What I did right: I added extra vanilla, a dollop of bourbon and a generous pinch of nutmeg. It seemed sacrilege to not use nutmeg. When beating the meringue, I added a 1/4 tsp of cream of tartar, doubled the amount of egg whites, and beat them to soft peaks with a hand mixer in my clean copper bowl. Nice and high, that's how I like my meringue.
What I did wrong: See Butterscotch Cream Pie.
What I thought of it: Yum. More complex than pumpkin pie, different in that it's topped with meringue instead of whipped cream. It's lighter and better for you. After all, nutritionists at the Center for Science and the Public Interest ranked sweet potatoes #1 in nutrition, outscoring the next highest vegetable by over 100 points.
How I'll tweak it next time: I think I'll make two. Teenage boys, you know.

 

Hunna, you should see his chest!

I have begun a new blog via Blogger, ChannelingHelen.com, dealing with all things epicurean and intoxicating. I will import here and continue to enjoy and reply to comments received. I hope you enjoy it. Thanks for reading! The year was 1985 and my then boyfriend/now husband and I traveled a route familiar to me since youth, the four and a half hour drive from North Carolina to Maryland. Through fields of cotton and soybeans, past disintegrating tobacco shacks, abandoned gas stations, and rusting farm equipment to the smoke-stacked freeway maze that was Richmond, across the Potomac in view of the Capital, until we reached the beltway, Dulaney Valley Road, and the turnoff on Southerly to get to Gramma’s apartment. Even though it was November in Towson, David arrived sans shirt, wearing a slight pair of white shorts and sneakers. And he was in shape, the physical condition that arrives with jumping from air planes, running triathlons, and dating someone like me. After greetings were exchanged, suitcases stowed, and no less than five minutes had elapsed, we had cocktails in hand, de riguer for visits with Gramma. Honestly, I think we all stayed slightly buzzed during each visit. In between CC & water one and two, we discussed visiting Hunna, Gramma’s best friend since early youth. I was eager to see her again as she was an honorary great aunt to me and, of course, I wanted David to meet her as well. Gramma disappeared into the bedroom to call Hunna whereupon I immediately overheard her loudly and excitedly declare, “Hunna, you should see his chest!” Plans made, we got ready to walk the half block to Hunna’s apartment. Gramma turned to me and demanded, “He IS going to put a shirt on, isn’t he?” And he did, though I half-thought she’d have him remove it again once we got to Hunna’s to preen and show off for her. Hours later, we were all “in the sauce”, having a wonderful time, laughing and carrying on, getting drunk and disorderly. Though the Jolly Girls could have kept going and, admittedly, were drinking us more than one for one and could easily have left us under a table while they continued their rabble-rousing, David and I decided to walk to a local bar and bid the ladies good night. The evening ended up with me chucking a tennis ball hard to David’s testicles but that’s another story for another day. The main point of the evening and a revelation to David, “I didn’t know old people could be so much fun!” My grandmother Helen was indeed fun. And hard-working and disciplined. And a wonderful cook and exceptional housekeeper. Yet, her one characteristic that everyone remarked on was her outspokenness, sometimes to a fault and oftentimes to its recipients’ embarrassment. In fact, the morning after David’s realization that the elderly could, in fact, be entertaining, she asked me, her granddaughter that she had played hours of Uncle Wiggly and gin rummy with, whom she had made untold pints of homemade applesauce for, for whom she had knitted countless sweaters, “Are you and he lovers? Because it sure seems like it.” But that was Gramma and I loved her for it. To this day, when I let my own innate outspokenness show itself more than I should, I am accused of “letting Helen out”. With this new blog, I will do my best to do just that, concentrating on matters culinary and hedonistic but diverging to rambling paths as I choose. It is my blog after all. I hope you will enjoy its future as I do my best to entertain and to Channel Helen. BTW, to answer her question, yes we were and it was damned good. And we will be married 24 years come next May. I think Gramma would be pleased.

Returning to the Three Effs

Each time I sit down to post to Pretending to Farm, I do it with the intention that I am now back to a regular schedule of Three F conversation, Farming, Family, and Fiber.  But then, I get pulled away by those very things in addition to my other writing gig at Open Salon, a social networking and blogging internet venue that is still in its beta stage but now open to anyone wanting to join and give it a try. 

I began writing on my own “All We Are Saying: Give Fleece a Chance” blog page in the hopes of crossing over to the other Salon, a liberal-leaning news and opinion site that I have followed since its inception.   I wanted to be paid for writing short essays and researched pieces whilst continuing with The Great American Novel.  Since I had been invited to be one of the initial beta testers of approximately 200-300 people, I thought the chance of that was a good one, set my expectations high, too high, and wrote, wrote, wrote.  I wrote my heart out.  I wrote of topics too controversial to post here and too personal to be laid out for those who knew me (after all, these people were strangers to me and I to them; my real name was not on display).  Occasionally, I would voice my frustration and sorrow over not being a financially successful writer despite all the positive feedback I received from both the editors and fellow bloggers on Open Salon.  That frustration was and is real and my expectations have been lowered, both by me and by the Overlords as we call the editors and professional staff there.  In the almost six months I have participated there, I have earned a whopping $1 in the form of a tip from another poster. 

 

Admittedly, I have received other awards, arguably more valuable than filthy lucre, friends, lots and lots of friends, some of whom share my ideals, some who make me laugh, some who challenge my mind and make me think in ways I have not before.  When I traveled through Colorado in June, I met one of these friends in person and had a wonderful time.  A group of these people including one of the editors is heading our way for Spring Training in March and we’re planning a fun get-together at the notorious but always entertaining Greasewood Flat.  One of the members is going to drag me to something called Estrella War and introduce me to The Society of Creative Anachronism (SCA or dress up in Renaissance garb and pretend to live in another time period).  Some of these friends I feel will be life-long even if I never meet them in person.  Others will drop by the wayside as some friends do but I will still have had the gift of knowing them if only briefly.

 

So what have I learned?  Becoming a freelance writer and maintaining a steady stream of assignments is very difficult and, besides a golden few, does not typically afford a comfortable living.  I have met the professional writers that I wanted (want) to be through Open Salon, multiply published writers, only some of them were hovering around the poverty line, some were forced to subsist with the help of government programs, and some were humiliated into taking their families to soup kitchens because they could not pay rent and utilities and afford groceries as well.  It is not a glamorous career but is one of an artist, one with which I am all too familiar, long hours and little pay with a crap shoot to the big time.  

 

And what have I decided?  I’m going back to writing for fun, but writing what I feel without the worry of hurting someone’s sensibilities because I have expressed my strong and sometimes unique opinion.  If you can handle that, baby I’m back with a vengeance.  If you cannot, plenty of sites are floating around that speak only of knitting or fiber with a dash of family, some with farms as well.  If by a strange happenstance someone wants to pay me for something I’ve written, great; if not, that’s okay, too, just not as good at paying the power bill.

 

Shall we go back to the Three F’s?  I have lots to catch you up on but I’ll do that over time.  This post has gotten long enough as it is.  For now, I’ll extol the continued wonder that is the Pint-Sized Farmer despite the fact that he is railing at me as I write.  Horror of horrors, I folded his train instruction paper and put it in a drawer.  Apparently, I ruined it. I am a terrible grandmother.

 

I’ll let you know that all the rams are now neutered and some will be offered for sale as fiber wethers, though the thought of it puts a hitch in my voice and a lump in my throat.  Hay has gone up at least 30% and because of the damned publishing industry’s rejection of me; we cannot continue to foot the bill for feeding our babies.

 

Also, since we (I) procrastinated too long in the spring and never got around to calling Papa Ernie to give the ruminants their haircuts, shearing is just around the bend and with a dozen Shetlands plus the three Angoras (we’re holding off on the alpaca and llama), it will be a challenge but should provide some decent blog fodder.

 

Teenager-wise, the twins have begun high school which once again makes me officially old but that’s okay.  I have the mind of a child.  I’ll be sharing that mind with you at least a few times a week and hopefully more in the months and years to come, God willing.  Maybe, just maybe, someone will think I’m all-that and pay me for this dribble but, for now, this girl just wants to have fun.

Conversations with Robear

A Quick Aside: When the twins were still babies, but old enough to sit up together in the kid section of a shopping cart, I was standing in the checkout line of the grocery store when I was approached by an enthralled French woman. With broken English, she asked the boys’ names to which I replied Robert and David. Raising her hands in the air and turning to her compatriots, she joyfully declared, and I will write the names phonetically as the spelling is no different, “Robear et Daveed!” To this day, Robert is often referred to thusly or, to mix it up a bit, “The Bear Man.”

I don’t know if you read or heard about the latest scientific findings out of North Carolina State University and published in the new edition of “Science” magazine which indicate that the dinosaurs’ closest living relatives are birds, specifically chickens and ostriches. In fact, their kinship to birds is more so than with living reptiles, such as the alligator. The results of this study were determined from the protein in preserved soft tissues from the bones of a 68 million-year-old T. rex excavated in 2003 by John R. Horner of Montana State University. Mary H. Schweitzer of North Carolina State University discovered the soft tissue by accident as it was previously thought that marrow and such from dinosaur bones could not stay preserved in the indicated time span but, apparently, the burial site offered greater than usual protection from the elements, hence the non-degraded soft tissue.

I had read about this in the April 25th edition of the New York Times. The following day, Friday, was a half day for the boys which means I pick them up at noon. Now whenever I “leave the compound,” which isn’t often, I typically have NPR dialed in (punched in? inputted digitally?) on my truck’s radio and, at the boys’ pick up time, I was listening to Science Friday with Ira Flatow. He and Mary Schweitzer were discussing this very study when the bus arrived. My two boys jumped in the up-until-now quiet cab, filling it with raucous noise and argument until the words T-Rex were somehow heard and all became quiet.

Robert: They found soft tissue in dinosaur bones???!!! (When he gets going, his excitement knows no bounds.) Hey, that means they could clone the T-Rex and make more.

David (using his best aloof monotone): Robert, didn’t you see “Jurassic Park?”

Robert (ignoring David, I honestly don’t think he even heard him): Yeah, they could clone them! Hey, we could clone them!

Robert dreams big as you can read. He thinks he can do things far out of his grasp and makes copious notes planning it all out, does massive research on the internet, and, once ready, comes to me or his father raring to jumpstart his project. Unfortunately, unlike Dexter in the cartoon “Dexter’s Laboratory,” we do not have a secret hidden la- BOR-a-to-ry. We do not have the means to extract DNA and, in fact, we do not have a dinosaur bone. Please do not mention this to my son who has spent a lot of time since learning this new information, digging in the washes surrounding our home for a large prehistoric femur. He will come crashing down to Earth and make moping an art form. The poor child is a sensitive dreamer like his mother, perhaps even more so.

Back to Friday.

Me: Robert, we don’t have soft tissue from a dinosaur bone.”

Let us pause for a moment of pensive silence.

Robert: Do you think we could use DNA from our chickens and then go to an ostrich farm and get their DNA and make a dinosaur?

Me: Well, Robert, if you can figure out a way, go for it.

David: Didn’t you see “Jurassic Park?!”

We’ll see what happens. If you hear about a giant prehistoric reptile roaming the Sonoran Desert, you’ll know why. I better hide my goats.

Demons in Kids' Clothing

My lambs are adorable; my kids (not the goat kind) are driving me crazy. That's all I have to say today.

Happy Birthday Robear and Daveed!

Today my twin boys, the dynamic dueling duo who go by the names Robert and David, turn the ripe old age of 14. Is it possible that it has been that long since the doctor sliced me open and pulled those critters out of me? In some ways, it seems like ages ago and, in other ways, it seems like last year.

Robert, golden-hearted boy that he is, asked to take cupcakes to school;
David said the kids were dweebs and he wasn’t giving them anything. I tell you they couldn’t be more different if they tried, which perhaps they do.

Tonight, we are planning a noisy dinner at home (it is never quiet in my house) followed by cake and presents. When the boys see their presents, and after the technical aspect of everything is in place, I think they’ll be pleased. Due to what I feel is a ridiculous price point, we’ve been putting off this gift purchase for a while now but have finally caved. I’ll give you a hint, the number 3 is featured predominately in the title. Perhaps they’ll actually play together and even have fun. Maybe they won’t argue… I know, silly me, but a mom can dream can’t she?

So Happy Birthday to my boys who I love more than the moon and stars, my boys who have loved me in return. They have also squeezed just about every other emotion out of me as well but, in the end, they’re worth it. More than worth it.

TNT

I’ve just been paged by Michelle and, as I have stated before, when Michelle McMillen asks, I answer.

Once again, I have been neglecting the blog, that in addition to my knitting, spinning, and any and all responsibilities I can. Instead, I have been reading A LOT and not my usual erudite fare but varying-degree-of-trashy romance novels. You know, the kind on display in the drug store between “Us” and “In Style” magazines. They don’t have nice soft covers like “The Emperor’s Children” by Claire Messud which sits by my bed unopened despite its New York Times Book Review “Best Book of the Year” award seal. Most likely, they are not going to win any awards at all. This does not diminish their nose-in-a-book/ ostrich-in-the-sand conflict-avoiding power. Right now, I’d much rather read about the seemingly-plain-woman-who-inexplicably-falls-for-the-conceited-stud-who-turns-out-to-be-not-so-conceited-after-all-and-realizes-the-potential-in-this-lady-who-turns-out-to-be-lovely-once-her-potential-is-revealed than deal with my warring family. TNT = teenagers and toddler.

You know, I’m a fairly peaceful person. I rarely get truly angry, disappointed yes, mad (except in the head) no. Yet, somehow I germinated three beings who insist on fighting about any and everything from who is allowed in whose room to whose turn it is to empty the dishwasher to who drank the last Coke that they bought with their own money. And heaven forbid someone rearranges someone’s box of teas. For some reason misunderstood by me, this elicits screaming and yelling which escalates to shrieking and cussing. As a parent, it is important that I do my best to stay out of this whirling dervish of ridiculousness. Otherwise, anger can and usually will be volleyed my way. I do not like this; it makes me cry. I feel like frickin’ Rodney King; i.e. “Why can’t we all just get along?”

I realize someday soon I am going to have to figure out a way to manage this powder keg called home. For now though, you’ll find me with my nose in a romance novel and, depending on the time of day, a glass of spirits in my hand.

It’s funny; all this time I thought teenaged drinking was something they did but I now realize it is something they cause. Wait until Brian hits adolescence, Michelle, your teetotaling days could just be in jeopardy.

Is Mr. Wizard Still Out There?

We awoke this morning to unrelenting wind and driving rain, atypical for our little patch of the Sonoran Desert. It was still dark, causing me to wonder if the washes were running, how the livestock were faring, and if anything had been swept away or, on the contrary, deposited homeward. Leaving myself bare, I looked at Hunky Husband and pondered, “I wonder what it will look like when the sun comes up.”

Not missing a beat, he said, “Lighter.” The smart aleck.

This is my life. It is not boring and one has to stay on one’s toes or be slaughtered by multi-directional, not-quite-rapier wit.

An hour later, I still cannot see what the storm hath wrought but, in the dim light, I am assured that none of our livestock are tumbling down our semi-annual river and our home has not leapt from its moorings so I think we’re okay. It’s probably silly to worry about a simple rain storm when elsewhere snow is drifting and waves are roaring but, hey, I’m nothing if not egocentric. We got five whole inches of rain last year; two in a 24-hour period makes an impact.

Meanwhile in the house world, all remains a this-is-the-filthiest-I’ve-ever-seen-it mess. This is not helped by these.

Or the rabbit who thinks he is a cat
(or bloodhound depending upon his present company). His potty training is not going well, still thrown way backwards since our Thanksgiving absence, and he is now in solitary confinement in the master bathroom (which is fairly large so it’s not like we’ve thrown him down a dark hole with a pocket watch and given him the idea he is late for a very important date).

This one doesn’t help either. He has a penchant for knocking things over, graceful feline my you-know-what. Felina can literally pussy-foot her way across a tabletop of clutter and never graze one object but Apollo takes after his Rocky-born namesake, Apollo Creed.

He does make it up by keeping our laps warm during those rare relaxing times. Of course, he also never fails to accompany us to the restroom because no one wants to do their business in solitary peace. I have had Marshall the bloodhound, Apollo the part-Siamese-if-you-please, and a certain Pint-sized farmer all join me in the tiny throne room. Oh, joy. You know, I grew up in a usually-quiet family of three (or four if you include Terry Dog), two parents and me. Lately, I’ve been thinking I conked my head one too many times during those aforementioned eighties, leading to my current predicament/blessing. Help, Mr. Wizard.

So now I must rise and shine (flicker?) and dive into the overwhelming clutter and dustbowl that is my home. I feel like I am in the scene in “Apollo 13” after Tom Hanks’ character and his wife have thrown a party and she says, “The house is too dirty; we’ll have to move.” Wish me luck (or send a housekeeper or ten). I’ll need it.

Totemly Man

We’ve had a busy weekend and although the weekend is over, the busy-ness is not. I’m running around like the proverbial chicken with no head yet, since I neglected to take the time to post over the last two days, I am now forcing myself to do so.

Saturday morning we picked up the boys without a hitch. The vet was wonderful, enthusiastic about the breed in particular and sheep in general, and seemed genuinely pleased that he got to care for them, even if it was for castration surgery. The dog and cat owners that ventured in and out of the office eavesdropped on our conversation and appeared gobsmacked that farm animals would dare to put a hoof at their animal hospital.

During the drive home, David drove the most carefully and gently I have had the pleasure to experience in the entire 22 ½ years I have known him. It matters not that I get carsick, that the children and/or I are ill or sore for one reason or another but apparently it matters greatly that someone’s male parts are in pain. Next time he starts driving like the madman he can be, I am going to tell him my testicles hurt. You never know; it might work.

We arrived home to find a mourning Robert, sad because Tiger Lil’, former cage mate to the recently deceased Daffodil, had gone the way of her furry (and now cold and in the ground) friend and died. Although I was sad for Robert, my secret inner practical self was relieved to have one less species for which to care. No more hamsters, never again will I have to clean out a hamster cage, fill the upside down water drippy thingy, or buy hamster food at the pet store. Phew. Then, of course, Robert’s friend’s mother called and said AJ had told her how upset Robert was over the loss of Tiger Lil’ and Daffodil and how they would like to buy Robert a new hamster.

By the way Robert had sidled up beside me with expectation in his eyes, I suspected a plot had been hatched between friends. But guess what? I do have the slightest bit of backbone. The cage was already in the dumpster and my mind had turned off its hamster care sector. So I said thanks, but no thanks. She professed her relief that she had called me and I had a beer to celebrate. Sometimes I can be downright mean. Watch out Chuck Norris.

I interrupt this blog post to relieve Jessica of Pint-Sized Care. It’s finals week and she has to study. Hunky Husband has to work. I’m at the bottom of the totem pool people; it’s my lot in life and I have come to accept it.

But I got a new dining room table and chairs. Even at the bottom of a bunch of funny faces, life is good.